Chapter 1: Sail to Cabo

For a sailor with some 15,000 sea miles under his belt I was among the least prepared cruisers of all time. Twenty years old, and with a boat I had owned just four months and sailed a dozen times, I declared myself ready to set off on my dream voyage. My apprenticeship had been served under two highly accomplished captains who couldn’t have been more different. The first, Captain Klaus Peter Kurz, captained his own vessel, a gorgeous 68 foot brigantine he designed and had custom-built named Atair. I sailed some 10,000 miles with Klaus from California through the Panama Canal, and thence through the Caribbean, across the Atlantic and up to Germany. Along the way I learned a great deal about sailing and considered myself proficient in navigation and most aspects of seamanship. I could proficiently sail on a beam reach and beat into the wind with most cruisers, but the only downwind sailing we did was with square sails set, an advantage few cruisers (and certainly not myself) would ever have. My second mentor, Captain John Rains, was a highly-respected delivery skipper at the tail end of an illustrious career. Under Captain Rains I delivered five boats various distances along the route from California to Florida via the Panama Canal. My seamanship skills were increased and I learned a great deal about working with modern electronics to aid in navigation, but we only delivered power boats and thus my sailing skills stagnated. Nonetheless, after a year sailing as often as I could aboard my little Catalina 27 I felt I had gained sufficient knowledge and experience to set out on my dream voyage.
Thus it was that on April 6, 2006 my father, cousin Ryan, and I said good-bye to our families and motored out of Mission Bay, southward bound. A late winter storm had just passed by and left in its wake sloppy seas and unusual calm winds. As Avventura cleared the South Mission Bay jetty she began rolling awkwardly in the large short-period swells. The wind was forecast to fill in as the day wore on, and as the clock struck noon we set the main, pulled out the jib, and shut down the engine. The sail to Cabo had truly begun. Mission Bay was 15 miles astern and we were scooting along before a seven knot west wind.
By nightfall the wind had increased to twenty knots and shifted to the WNW. A small south swell began to mingle with the big west making for a sloppy, wild motion. Avventura rocked wildly, and I was soon deep in the throes of seasickness. Through the night we steered as far downwind as we could to keep the sails full and made good speed riding down the swells. The winds roared in over the starboard quarter and the jolting ride on the swells was like a rodeo cowboy atop a wild bull. The stern kicked this way and that, but through the night the bow plunged southward ticking off the miles. We steered by hand most of the night making sure to acquaint ourselves with steering in case disaster struck, and the sloppy seas made holding a steady course impossible. You could see the fear writ in my crewmates eyes as the wrangled the wheel and we rushed down the heaving swells. As with most sails south to Cabo we had leapt right into the fire and were receiving our first big trial.
By midnight the seas began to subside, but for me it was too late. Seasickness had started and the next three days, I knew, would be sheer torture. The winds persisted making for a wild ride until the sun broke from the sea and a new day began. It was as if the sun and moon were opposing forces, when one was out in full force the other ran away and hid. For the next four days the cycle would repeat. As night fell the wind would pick up into the twenty knot range, and by midnight the full fury of the wind would hit, often exceeding thirty knots. The helmsman would fight to keep Avventura headed downwind, and the sloppy seas continued to assault us from all directions. Sleep was hard to come by, and all rejoiced at the sight of the coming dawn. By the time the sun had asserted herself in the east the wind had run away to hide, often dipping under ten knots and providing a good chance to run the motor and recharge our batteries. Once the wind grew used to the sun, however, it would begin to pour in again, and come nightfall the process repeated.
Day and night the wind poured in from the same northwesterly direction, and we plunged on with the mainsail and jib each on the same side. If we steered too far downwind the main would block the flow of air to the jib, and with each swell the jib would spill its wind and refill with a loud slap. Thus our track southward began to resemble a beat to windward as we jibed through the wind, zig-zagging our way down the line. It was a rookie mistake not to pole the jib out to windward; but I was fearful of trying to learn a new sail arrangement with so much wind filling in each night.
The wind cycle was taxing on all of us, and as the morning of our sixth day at sea dawned I mentioned the possibility of making a brief stop at Bahia Santa Maria to rest. My crewmates jumped at the idea and before long it felt like there’d be a mutiny if we didn’t stop. We were still close to sixty miles from the anchorage, and when the wind dipped under ten knots I started the motor and we began motorsailing towards our promised rest stop. I knew the chances of making landfall in daylight were slim, but having anchored in the bay before I knew I could find my way in using the GPS waypoint I had recorded during my previous visit and with the radar scanning the coastline.
In the early afternoon a boat was spotted to starboard, but it was clear we’d pass safely, so I gave it little thought. Then, just as the ship passed abeam a couple miles away, the sound of an engine approaching was heard and we spotted two heads leaping from the sea, then disappearing behind the next swell. A couple minutes later two Mexican men in a zodiac donning wetsuits pulled alongside. Unsure of what to make of them, and knowing we were far from any land-based help, we were leery and I refused to slow down. I explained to them that I spoke little Spanish, and tried to see what they wanted, but the only word I could understand was libro (book). I found it strange that they should risk their lives to speed across two miles of ocean in an open boat just to ask for a book, but since I had a couple I could spare I went below, retrieved one, and offered it to them. They took the book for a moment, looked at me incredulously, and handed it back to me, then turned and disappeared over the waves once more. To this day I don’t know what the men wanted, but anytime a boat approaches you when you’re over twenty miles offshore it is an uncomfortable situation and I was happy they had decided to leave.
As the sun dipped into the sea land was sighted ahead in the form of Cabo San Lazaro. In most instances I am vehemently opposed to entering a foreign port after nightfall. The risks tend to outweigh the rewards. Navigation lights may not be working or may have changed positions or characteristics, the charts may b inaccurate, there may be unlit vessels or buoys, etc. But in the case of Bahia Santa Maria I decided to make an exception. Ryan had yet to get over his seasickness, my father had yet to get a decent night’s rest, and we were all tired and weary after battling the rough conditions for days on end. My decision was made easier by the fact that I had anchored in the bay before while working as a deckhand for John Rains aboard the M/V Knotty Dog, and I had recorded in my log for that trip the exact GPS waypoint of where we had anchored along with the depth at that very spot. I remembered the approach as being straightforward and could still picture it in my kind, so as night settled in I was prepared to enter the lee of the land.
When the sun disappeared the wind followed suit, and by 2000 we were under power of the engine alone, and the hours seemed to crawl past. Three hours later Avventura nudged into the lee of the land, and with the radar scanning the black horizon and my crew on the bow keeping a close lookout we crept inside the bay. As we neared my GPS waypoint the dark form of another vessel came into view, so I circled around it, inched a bit closer to shore, and told my father to drop the anchor. In just under thirty feet of water, Avventura swung to her anchor and bit the hook with 150 feet of chain out. Within minutes I shut the engine off and relished the utter silence.
Stars filled the sky from horizon to horizon, interrupted only by the dark hulk of Cabo San Lazaro and the lowlands of Baja California to the east. The air was still and tinged with an unmistakable chill. Ryan entered the cabin, laid down in his berth, and was asleep in a matter of minutes. My father and I sat on the cabin top, breathing in the night air and relishing the lack of motion. Silence reigned, and we were both loathe to break it. Though physically exhausted, my mind raced and my heart continued to pound. The thrill of anchoring my own boat in a foreign port for the first time etched a smile on my face, and I couldn’t wait for dawn to reveal the desolate beauty of the bay. A long hug and a simple “goodnight,” was all we exchanged before turning in for some much needed sleep.
The absence of motion induced a deep sleep lasting till well after sunrise on April 12. By the time I awoke my father was settled in the cockpit reading. Ryan was still snoozing. I emerged into the bright sunshine and stretched in the cockpit. The dramatic point of Bahia Santa Maria rose high above me stretching out towards the open ocean. Ashore, a desolate desert stretched gave way imperceptibly to a long beach before terminating abruptly into the deep blue of the bay. Bahia Santa Maria is exactly as you’d picture Baja California—rugged and desolate, with tan desert sand and barren hills flowing into deep blue water. A small camp and a few shacks stood ashore in the northwest corner of the bay, and rumor has it a nice righthander reels down the point with a good south swell; but in late winter there was no sign of surf. The still night gave way to a breezy morning, and before noon a fifteen knot wind was sweeping off the land and ripping through Avventura’s rigging.
Taking advantage of a flat cooking surface, my father whipped up some eggs and potatoes for breakfast, a welcome change for my weak body. Days of seasickness had taken their toll, but a good night’s sleep and a hearty breakfast helped me regain some energy and spring to life once more. I spent the morning determining the route we’d travel south to Cabo, and by calculating out the distance and an average speed of five knots, I realized we needed to be back underway before nightfall to ensure a morning landfall in the bustling port.
By midmorning I was eager to remove the layer of grime from my body, but my heart sank when I saw the water temperature measured just 58˚. Here we were just 175 miles from the well-known tropical escape of Cabo San Lucas and the water was colder than it had been in San Diego when we left! Cursing the California current, I decided cleanliness was worth a little pain. Besides the sapphire waters were so alluring I couldn’t resist. I donned a swimsuit, grabbed a bottle of saltwater soap, and stood on deck. The dry chill of the wind made me think twice, so before I could back out of my grand plan I stood on the cabin top and dove over the side. Immediately the cold bit at my bones and my extremities tensed up. I stood on Avventura’s swim ladder, soaped up, and dove in once more. With my body clean, I made a quick circle of Avventura, climbed up and down her anchor chain for fun, checked her prop and rudder, and climbed the swim ladder, my body covered in goosebumbs and shaking uncontrollably.
I toweled off and let the dry desert wind and midday sun bring some warmth back to my body. Once the feeling returned to my fingers and toes I retrieved a book, sat in the cockpit, and passed a pleasant afternoon. After blowing a steady fifteen knots from the NW all day, the wind died suddenly at 1600 just as we were preparing to depart. My hopes of leaving the anchorage under full sail were dashed, and at 1630 I fired up the engine and Ryan started the windlass, clicking in the links of chain. As we powered out of the anchorage a slight westerly breeze filled in and we set sail. Unfortunately the anchorage acts as a funnel for the wind, and the further we sailed the lighter the breeze became. Within thirty minutes the breeze blew itself out and we were back to motoring once more.
The sun sank low in the western sky and the surface of the sea turned red in places from clumps of tiny tuna crabs. How amazing, I thought, that these little critters make it as far north as San Diego during an El Niño season. With the sun touching the surface of the sea the moon peeked out from behind a mountain inland, and while one heavenly body left us the other took hold of the sky, orange and full, big and bold against the light blue backdrop.
Darkness settled over the scene and I sat in the cockpit by myself, scratching off a journal entry while enjoying an easy night watch. A shrimp boat leaving Magdalena Bay provided the only other light visible, and I relished the ease and comfort of motoring over calm seas for a change. Before long all was dark above, and a few bold stars made their presence known despite the big bully of a moon. The moon cast a streak of light upon the glassy sea and displayed the dark silhouette of the coastal mountains close to port. As the clock struck eleven my father emerged to relieve me, I made a quick log entry, and fell into bed. Images of the rock formations of Cabo San Lucas filled my head, and I thrilled to know they were just a day and a half away. After a while my eyes closed on a nice day of cruising.
Beep beep; beep beep; beep beep!
My alarm jars me awake. Fifteen minutes to four; time to get ready for my watch. A splash of water on my face, retrieval of a jacket and I’m in the cockpit. “All right Ryan, I’ve got it.” Nary a word as he stumbles down into the cabin and completes his paltry log entry. I scan the horizon. No lights in sight; the dark hulk of the Baja peninsula still rises to port; the moon has begun her rapid descent towards the sea. All is quiet, but the steady onward surging of Avventura’s bow through the silky sea. Ryan settles into his berth and I pick up the logbook to read what I missed while I slept. The first entries are my father’s:
“2300: No sails up—No wind—Desolate but beautiful coastline to port.”
“0000: Tosco Point lighthouse just ahead. Rocking along under a nearly full moon.”
“0100: Flat calm.”
Then comes Ryan’s trio of originality:
“0200: Calm seas—no wind.”
“0300: Calm glassy seas—occasional 1–3 foot swell west.”
“0400: Calm seas—no wind.”
Ah. Now I know what I missed over the last three hours! I note our progress on the computer navigation program—we are still right on course. The GPS shows us trekking along at a steady five knots. I rise from the nav station and return to the cockpit. A glance at the engine instruments shows they haven’t budged since I last saw them: 1500 rpms, 175˚ water teperature, 40 p.s.i. oil pressure. All is well on this sleeping ship.
In the cockpit the air is tinged with a damp coolness. Where is the heat of the tropics? Surely Cabo San Lucas isn’t this cold. I open the latest John Grisham novel and the pages begin to turn themselves in a steady progression. The text flows past effortlessly, and I hope to one day write so smooth. Every few pages I gaze up from the book and pass my eyes along the horizon. A yacht passes to starboard, northward bound. All else is black and nothingness. No other boats will be seen this night. Back to reading. Then, out of the silence of the sea comes a “poof!” The sound is similar to that of the exhalation of a person who has been trying to hold his breath as long as he can. A minute passes, then, “Poof…poof.” Dolphins!
Rising from the cockpit, I walk towards the bow, conscious of my every careful step. How can I resist playing with my friends? I grab hold of the forestay and follows the brilliant green tracks of the dolphins piercing and exciting the phosphorescent sea. A pair of the loveable creatures gather beneath the bow and cross paths, dancing with each other as they ride my bow wave. Squeals of delight escape from below and they pierce the surface for a quick breath. After five minutes of bodysurfing and dancing my friends depart as quickly as they appeared, and with that all is quiet once more. I take a seat on the cabin top and peruse the heavens. The swooping tail of Scorpio hovers above a few cirrus clouds; the moon dips low in the west; signs of dawn spread in the east.
Back in the cockpit, I continue reading as the sky regains her color. Puffs of high clouds form even lines and ruffle the sky. As the sun creeps towards the eastern horizon they become inflamed with a pinkish color which intensifies till the sun peaks out from behind Baja. Then begins the sun’s ascent, and with it the clouds turn to from pink to orange to yellow, till eventually the color fades to white. A gorgeous tropical day has begun.
The day passes in a sea of routine. Watches are kept; log entries made; pages read; food prepared and eaten; journal entries written; and miles slip astern almost unnoticed. Signs of the tropics begin to trickle in: the water temperature begins to creep up, the sky is a dark blue and the air is hot. Midday comes and goes and the engine drones on.
My patience is wearing thin. The engine has been droning for over twenty hours and I’ve had enough. A puff of wind caresses the back of my neck and the flags beneath the spreaders begin to flutter. Enough is enough—it’s time to set sail. With the wind trickling in from astern the time has come to see what the spinnaker can do. Setting the big sail is a three-man ordeal, and since I’ve only flown it once before there are some kinks that work themselves out in the process. But after a handful of minutes I pull up the protective sleeve, a gust fills the sail and its big belly explodes into shape and urges us onwards. I rush to the cockpit, reign in the jibsheet, shut down the engine, and take the helm. Peace at last!
Silence reigns supreme. Calm seas are pierced by Avventura’s black bow, and the bow wave is the only sound to be heard. The blue skies above are devoid of any clouds, so I fear the wind will be short-lived. But in the moment the motion is wonderful, the big red and blue sail is doing all the work, and the miles are still drifting astern. Cabo is under 100 miles away.
Just as I’m starting to get the hang of sailing with the spinnaker everything changes. The wind shifts a bit forward, then quits altogether. The spinnaker spills her wind and hangs down limp. Avventura glides to a virtual stop. A puff of wind from the wrong direction backwinds the spinnaker. The sail needs to come down, and now! My father takes the helm as I rush up on deck. I fumble with lines for a moment, unsure in the commotion of what exactly I have to do. But before long I find the dousing line, pull the protective sleeve back down, and all is quiet once more.
“Shise!” I scream, remembering a former captain of mine’s famous curse, “Damned refried Mexican wind!” The release calms my temper and I start the engine. Avventura rumbles onward and the routine traverse resumes.

Another gorgeous sunset, followed quickly by a brilliant moonrise, orange and full, presaged one last calm night at sea. Dolphins frolicked in our bow, phosphorescence ignited our wake, and the air was palpably warmer than previous nights. With each passing mile my excitement grew. We’d be in Cabo in time for a late breakfast.
The wind never attempted to return, and the night passed slowly by just as many a night would pass along the Mexican coast. Daylight brought Cabo Falso into sight and my heart leapt. By six o’clock the famous rock formations of Cabo san Lucas were in sight and an hour later I manned the helm as we slipped past the arch and entered the inner harbor. By 0700 we pulled alongside the fuel dock, loaded in a few gallons of diesel (???see fuel log for exact???), and were assigned to slip C-23. Thirty minutes later Avventura was tucked in her slip, the motor was shut down, and we had arrived. The first leg of my voyage was complete. My days as a cruiser would begin with a short stay in the tourist trap town of Cabo San Lucas, Mexico.

The Writing Process

As many of my friends and family know I’ve started the process of writing my second book—this one covering my travels aboard Avventura in the Pacific. For me the writing process has always been a long one. Unlike my dashed off blog updates (which I wrote in white heat and post them often before spellchecking them and certainly before reading them through) I’ve long viewed writing a book (or trying anyhow) to be a far more sacred craft that takes much more time and effort. My mentor, Bill Martin, has time and again preached the value of the “Rule of Seven,” and I’ve become a firm believer in its validity. The rule is simply this: before any piece of writing can be considered truly complete it must be rewritten a minimum of seven times. Gogol put it another way when he described how he would write something out eight times before it was finished (the first writing and seven subsequent re-writings). While the initial writing can glow in places and every now and again you can hit on a well-turned phrase or a few flowing paragraphs, the true art of writing comes from the re-writes where the language is fine-tuned. In my case this is ever-more the case as I still have little idea what direction I want the book to go in or how I will piece it together.
I made my first attempts at starting this book while anchored off the island of Huahine. I was surfing on an overcast August day (8/18/07) when an idea came to me of telling my tales through the lips of a narrator and thus weaving a separate story along with mine. The initial idea was to have a fictional old-timer, a ragged beachcomber tell the story through a series of encounters with strangers as he looked back on brighter days. I wrote out a few chapters in my remaining days in the Society Islands, but as I sailed away bound for points north I couldn’t summon the energy to keep working at a project I was quickly losing faith in. The stories felt insignificant, the old-timer a forced character without any soul, and the writing was bland. But here I am nearly two years later and I still haven’t hit upon a genius idea for how to string things together. I’d like to avoid churning out another straight-forward travelogue like Voyage of the Atair; but at the same time I knew I wanted to write up the stories, so at the moment I have my dreaded travelogue in progress. My plan is to hack out the first draft, writing up everything that was anything on the trip. This will at least give my family and myself a cohesive, exhaustive account of my two-plus years of travel, and will serve as my rough sketch that will be hacked away at and sculpted into a finished product. There’s still months of work ahead, and my writing pace has slackened despicably of late, but I’m determined to re-dedicate myself to the effort, and resuming this blog should help me keep my hand to the plow.
As of now I’ve written up the stretch from my San Diego departure to my arrival in the Marquesas, and my stay on Fatu Hiva. This leaves about a third of my travels, and perhaps as much as half the writing left ahead of me. What I plan to do is start posting my very, very, very rough drafts periodically till I’m caught up to where my writing is; and from there I’ll just keep right on going till the entire first draft is posted. I do so knowing there may only be a handful of people who ever read them, but I know my Aunt Momo will be one of them, and I hope you enjoy them while realizing they aren’t intended as anything but rough sketches at best.
I had one time hoped to have the entire book done by my birthday in July. Ha! Not going to happen. Now I’m going to aim at having the rough draft finished this summer, and a finished product for Christmas.

Home is the Sailor, Home from the Sea

It's a warm, humid Azure Vista morning as I sit at my desk overlooking the Pacific. And thus the transition is made back to the life of a landlubber, looking out upon an ocean I've called my home the past two and a half years. After 26 days at sea "Avventura" sits securely in a slip in San Diego Bay, motionless and making a transition of her own to the life of a daysailer. Last night was the first night I've spent away from her in over six months, and my first six hours of uninterrupted sleep in 26 days. Now let me go back some 48 hours to where I left off.
July 9 provided perhaps the most enjoyable day of sailing of the entire trip. With a WNW wind varying from 8 to 15 knots we sailed towards home wing-on-wing, surging down the faces of the six foot swells. I spent hours sitting at the end of the bowsprit peering into the thick overcast, trying to raise the form of land while knowing it was still too far away, the surges from each passing swell lifting me high in the air before shoving me down towards the green-gray surface of the sea. In the early afternoon we were greeted by two massive blue whales not a hundred yards off our port side. The behemoths blew a few times, slowly slithered aft looking like the Lochness Monster sliding across the surface of the sea, before disappearing astern of us. My father was left peering in our wake, certain the graceful creatures were hell-bent on ramming "Avventura." Soon after the whales disappeared sea lions began popping up here and there to take a look at the unnatural intruder. They'd look at us, give a little bark of disgust, and return to their realm (or was it a bark of "welcome home"--I've lost my ability to understand the dogs of the sea). Just before sunset a single whale spouted just once in the distance as if warning me things wouldn't stay this perfect much longer, and sure enough by sundown (not that the sun ever showed her face in the overcast fit for the Pacific Northwest) the wind had disappeared and it was time for the return of Mr. Drone the diesel burner.
As my final night at sea wore on the seas began to smooth out, and by the time I emerged from below to take over on my night watch I rose to find the lights of San Clemente Island off the port bow, seven miles away across a silky smooth sea. I passed much of my watch belowdecks, enthralled by the sounds of once-familiar radio stations, and emerged for one of my regular scans of the horizon to find a small fishing boat two miles away and coming right for us. I followed his course on radar and by sight and new we were heading for a collision. Looking at his lights I knew it was my right-of-way; but if cruising teaches you anything it is that the only "rule of the road" is might, combined with speed, makes right. Sure enough the guy never altered speed or course and I was forced to turn behind him, passing a few hundred yards astern. When I was relieved of my watch I gave thanks that my final close encounter had been dealt with without incident, and slipped into the deepest sleep of the voyage. Soon my mind began to wander and I found myself immersed in a nightmare unlike any I'd had in years. I was running somewhere on the outskirts of Los Angeles, listening to my Ipod and minding my own business when a silver truck pulled up beside me, passenger's window rolled down. The passenger pulled a gun and aimed it directly at me. Before he could say anything I had turned in my tracks and begun to run away, and in seconds I was being shot at. That was when my father woke me up: a hint of wind had arrived; should we set sail? So what's my take on the dream? My subconscious mind was perhaps warning me that despite all the places I've been I'm returning to what can be the most dangerous area of all--Southern California. (For a little back story to aid in the dream, the silver truck I saw I had encountered before back in 1999. I was skateboarding along the street I live in a half mile from my home, heading to check one of my favorite surf spots when this silver truck slowly pulled up from behind. I was with a group of friends, but as usual was bringing up the rear. The passenger window of the truck rolled down halfway and a big Mexican guy looked right at me, rested the barrel of a silver handgun on the edge of the window, and said in a low tone: "You better run motherf..." I'd never come across the man before; just some punk gangster out to scare a 15 year old kid.) Not the kind of welcome home dream I was hoping for!
When I emerged from my dream I found that a southerly wind had indeed started to show and before long we were motorsailing along at six knots. This breeze proved to be persistent, though light (7 knots), and in the end we were able to motorsail with it all the way into San Diego Bay. July 10 dawned brighter than the previous handful of days, and there was immediate hope that we might actually see the sun. In spite of clearing skies the horizon remained hazy, and it took until we were 16 miles away, just after 1100 California Time, for me to give the shout: "Land Ho!" The next few hours were almost torturously long. The bittersweet landfall I had anticipated turned out to be far more sweet than bitter, and I found myself unable to sit still, leaping around the boat in excitement, a smile beaming across my face and my eyes permanently fixed on the growing familiar form of Point Loma. Kevin said I was like a "little puppy," and I felt like I was floating on the surface of the sea--riding a high aided by prolonged sleep deprivation and 18 months of travel away from home.
By the early afternoon the sun was out in full force and I could feel my nose beginning to burn. To hell with the sunscreen, that meant spending time below, one last burn won't hurt me. We neared the point and a submarine came up from astern, passing far to starboard and guiding us into the familiar channel to San Diego Bay. By 1600 the point sat abeam of us, we were inshore of the kelp beds, and my cellphone was back in use. Moments later we slipped past the Point Loma Lighthouse, with Ballast Point falling by the wayside soon after. Once past the bait barge we turned up into the wind and took down the sails one last time. Then, at 1630, I nudged "Avventura" alongside the Harbor Police dock, shut down the motor, and the voyage was complete. 16000 miles and I was home again! All I could think of was the Robert Louis Stevenson quote:

Home is the sailor, home from the sea!

--July 11, 2008. Noon. In my room overlooking Garbage; Azure Vista, San Diego, California.

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Land Near; Not Quite Here

Dawn continues to reveal plenty of signs of land, though home is still over a day away. Clumps of kelp have been drifting by for the second straight day and this morning sea gulls have been flying awkwardly by, a poor imitation of the graceful sea birds we've seen the past weeks. One thing hasn't changed: it's freezing! If this is a San Diego summer I want out. Skies have been a San Francisco thick overcast for four straight days, and the temperatures are reminiscent of Seattle. And the water? A toasty 59! And to think, not a month ago I was surfing a fun south swell at Ala Moana Bowls in 78 degree water with sunny skies and gentle trades. I only hope things warm up as we close with the coast, and we find our way into the inshore eddy where the water temperature heats up.
The good news is we've had wind off-and-on for the past day. We're sailing now, and have been since 2300 last night, with a light WNW breeze. Jib is poled out to port and we're making a slow 4 knots, but just a couple hours ago we were cruising along at close to 7. Fickle conditions. Before this batch of wind we had been motoring for six hours, but before that there was another five hour stretch of sailing. After this bout I'm much more confident that we have the fuel to make it home; and it looks like we should be arriving sometime in the early afternoon tomorrow. 150 miles to go.

July 9-0640
33.01N by 120.06W

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"Dove," "Avventura," and the Path Less Traveled

With my voyage drawing to a gradual close it seemed only natural that I flip through the pages of "Dove" one more time. The book had changed the course of my life since the day I first picked it up and fanned the flames of my sailing dreams. I had already read it three times (more than any other book), so I figured I'd just flip through it and revisit my favorite passages already underlined in blue ink. I started with the first few pages, and in minutes I was hooked once more. In a matter of days I had read it cover to cover once more.

"Sailing already meant much more to me than 'mucking about in boats,' as the neighbors used to call it. It was the chance to escape from blackboards and the smell of disinfectant in the school toilet, from addition and subtraction sums that were never the same as the teacher's answers, from spelling words like 'seize' and 'fulfill' and from little league baseball. It was the chance to be alone and to be as free for a while as the sea gulls that swung around Morro Rock."

While my true introduction to sailing had come much later in life, I was quick to find this same quality in sailing and the sea. It provided the chance to get away from the rat race of modern society, to escape the conveyor belt that guides the masses through 17 years and more of schooling and on to comfortable 9-to-5 jobs that their piece of paper helped them get. But best of all sailing provided a window to the world--a means by which I could see faraway lands and gain a true and simple education at hands of life herself. While I've never been able to provide a clear and concise answer to the modern age's favorite question ("What are you going to do to make a living?"), I've long known I wouldn't fit the standard mold and would fall off the conveyor belt long before reaching the promised land. With that in mind I decided to jump off early and see what direction fate would pull me. Never once have I regretted my decision, and while some may say I've fallen behind my peers by not pursuing an "education" I say I've received a better education than any college could hope to impart. I've visited distant lands and befriended people from a number of distinct cultures. I've learned more about meteorology, geography and oceanography than most students forget they knew. I've multiplied my experiences a hundred-fold through ravenous reading and voracious living. And I've come to know myself; what I'm capable of mentally and physically, and how I can persevere through tough situations. No, I wouldn't trade places with the average college graduate even if I knew it would lead me to a life of leisure swimming in worldly riches. I'll take a wealth of memories, a bundle of friendships, and a close affinity with Mother Nature that will last a lifetime.

"At eight o'clock...'Dove' nosed into a berth at the Long Beach Marina. I threw a line. 'Dove' was tied up. I'd circled the world....
"'What made you do it?'
"There were many reasons. I didn't like school--but that's not unique. I wanted to look at the world, at people and places, without being a tourist. I wanted personal freedom. I wanted to know if I could do something alone--something really difficult. But somewhere deep in my mind I felt there was another reason and that it had something to do with fate and destiny. How could I phrase that? How could I tell these newsmen that I had sailed across the world because I had to do so--because that was what I was meant to do?"--Robin Lee Graham, "Dove"

"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than those you did. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from safe harbor, catch the tradewinds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover."--Mark Twain

"To the hunted, not to the hunter;
To the passage, not to the path."
--Sterling Hayden, "Voyage"

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Will the Diesel Last?

Never in my wildest dreams did I expect to be returning home on fumes, but that prospect is looking more and more likely now. The source of our woes dates back to the seventh day of the trip when the trades failed us a couple degrees south of where I anticipated they would. Then the Pacific High decided to form around us, forcing us to burn diesel and head for its northern edge. After five days of motoring (three more than I had anticipated) we picked up the first traces of a southerly breeze and continued to ride it northeast, skirting the edge of the high. When a low pressure system began to churn west of us it became clear the high would break down and we could begin sailing a direct course for San Diego. Before long the low brought us gale conditions and unfortunately we weren't able to make as much easting as I had hoped. Thus when the low moved on to the east the Pacific High started to rebuild around us. This necessitated another two days of motoring before we reached the east edge of the high where we were assaulted with near gale conditions. Again we weren't able to make as much easting as I hoped during the heavy blow, leaving us with 275 miles to San Diego when the wind failed us this morning and I was forced to fire up the diesel burner. After checking to see how much diesel was left in the tank, and dumping in the 20 gallons we had left on deck, we now have approximately 40 gallons of fuel to cover the final 275 miles, which would leave us with nothing more than fumes (at best) on arrival. Thus we continue to pray for winds while at the same time enjoying the ease and comfort of smooth seas after a rough couple days and trying and clean up/dry out the disaster that has become our home. We haven't seen the sun for days, and the overcast is so thick I can't imagine it breaking up before we reach the coast. As always this has put a damper on my mood. Perhaps more than most people my emotions and moods are tied to the weather, and prolonged periods of gloom lead to unproductive, lazy days for me.

Last night brought about perhaps the longest night watch of my life. As soon as darkness descended on the scene our dying breeze began shifting westward, making it all the more difficult to keep the sails full. Kevin was struggling a bit and largely to make up for my missing the first 90 minutes of my morning watch, I took over the helm more than an hour before my watch was set to begin. All was well for the first couple hours as I alternated between hand-steering in lulls and using the autopilot during the light puffs of wind; but after my first two hours the autopilot lost power and refused to turn back on (only after my watch did I realize I had run the batteries to such a low voltage the autopilot couldn't function). This left me with two hours of hand-steering on a slow broad reach with an obnoxious cross-swell leftover from our last bout of wind. During the first half hour I was able to stay awake by finishing up my fourth read through of Robin Lee Graham's "Dove" (a book that was in part responsible for this voyage); but once that was done the wind decided to fail me further and I battled through a long, bitter cold night. As my father climbed up the companionway to relieve me at 0200 the first signs of a grey dawn were creeping into the eastern sky (we remain on Hawaii time for now), and in large-part to save him the misery I had just suffered through I started the engine, magically bringing the autopilot back to life. A few hours of tormented rest followed, and by the time dawn arrived I had yet to get any proper sleep. But alas, signs are everywhere that land is close by, and that thought alone will allow me to suffer through a couple sleepless nights, my sights firmly set on the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow (in this case a motionless bed and a full night's stress-free sleep). The VHF has sparked to life with a constant barrage of chatter from various coast guard stations along the coast, in addition to that of a few naval vessels carrying out live munitions practice today. Last night I listened as the Coast Guard tried to help a boat that had somehow run into the jetty up at Morro Bay and tried to conceive of how such a mishap might happen in this electronic age. (Not the brightest captain, or mechanical failure I suppose.) Daylight has brought my first glimpses of kelp in years, and with it I know my childhood playground is close at hand...so long as the fuel holds.

-July 8--1045
33.34N by 121.53W

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You Know You've Been at Sea Too Long When...

You wake up from a miserable couple hours of sleep (countless angry swells had kept you from a deep sleep, including one mother that decided to unleash her fury over the entire boat and deposit a gallon in your lap thanks to a bloody skylight that won't seal), make for the head and go about your usual morning routine, and end by sitting before the computer to start the day with a position report, and perhaps an e-mail and a blog. You spend an hour typing away, followed by thirty minutes figuring out why the e-mail modem won't work and fixing the problem. And then you father looks at you and asks, "Do you want me to go relieve Kevin?"
"Why? He seems to be doing okay."
"Isn't it your watch?"
A quick glance at the time. 0930. Is it my watch? You'd figure after 22 days this would be well-engrained in my thick skull; but sure enough I've been dilly-dallying around for the first 90 minutes of my watch and happy-go-lucky Kevin has been enjoying his battle with the swells too much to let me know. Such are the strange occurrences that let you know you've been at sea too long. Time falls away and you become so tired that even after waking your mind can't process time and turn the day into a reality just yet.
Off watch now and we're moving along at a good clip again, thanks to a full jib and double-reefed main. Wind is easing, but swells persist. Forecast looks bleak with but little wind called for, and my thoughts are already back on our dire fuel situation. Surely we won't be forced to drift offshore after some 25 days at sea.

July 7-1125
33.45N by 123.58W

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